


The Old, Old Car In The Old, Old Lot

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Happy Ending, M/M, One Shot, The Impala - Freeform, This Should Be How SPN Ends, just read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5797639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There once was an old, old car, which lay barren and rusty in an old, old lot.</p><p>What ever became of the legends? The stories that inhabit the old, old car in the old, old lot, with peeling paint and rusty hinges and two army figurines and Legos that rattled when you started it up? The old, old car in the old, old lot had a history. A story. And it's my job to tell it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old, Old Car In The Old, Old Lot

The old, old car in the old, old lot.

Where do I begin to describe it?

It once was black. Sleek. Beautiful.

Now it's rusty and squeaky and dusty and faded.

The license plate reads, 'KAZ-2Y5'.

It has the initials, 'D.W.' and 'S.W.' carved into it.

It doesn't move any more, but when it did, it rattled from the Legos a child once pushed in to the vent.

The most important thing about this car is simply that. You can tell it was- is- important.

It has history.

The story of the boys and the angels.

It is rather lovely, if you have the time. Where I am from, they call it an urban legend. In Milwaukee, they call it a song. Here, they call it a truth. A tale. A lesson, a fable, a poem, a gospel. The story of a family. A mish-mashed, built from the ground up family.

I suppose you're curious now. As to what this tale is. Does it end happily? As happy as you can get. But that's not much. This is the tale of life and death and forgiveness, how err is human and forgiveness divine, and sometimes not. This is not a happy story. This is the saddest story you'll ever read, the tale of the two brothers and the angels and the king of Hell.

And the car tells it all.

The Legos and the army men and the carving are from a time long, long gone. They tell of the life that two boys who had to grow up much to fast. They tell of the reason they dug themselves deeper and deeper and deeper into a hole they created. The little army boys. The rebel and the peace-keeper, raising hell together.

The mis-matched parts tell of the love the peace-keeper put into the car, as if he worshipped it.

The amulet, hanging from the rear-view mirror, tells of the love between the peace-keeper and the rebel. And the soldier. And the delinquent who loved candy. And the prophet and the old drunk and the red-headed nerd with the Dungeons and Dragons tattoo.

The pictures in the glove box tell of a family. A blue-eyed man and another in a wheelchair, and another with green eyes and another that towers above all of them and a girl who was too young to die and a woman with fire in her eyes.

The pictures tell of a red-head who loved Harry Potter. A man with messy black hair and an old look in his eyes that was beyond his years. A demon who got better. Two demons who got better.

The tires tell of long rides into the sunset and into the sunrise and pitch black night and blazing summer day and every time in between.

The books in the back seat, though. Oh, those books tell a tale.

They do not have a happy ending.

But they are also incomplete.

The books tell of heartbreak and death and life and happiness and love. Love. The love between the brothers. The love between the brothers and a certain angel. And a prophet and an old drunk and a king and a red-headed nerd.

And there are children who sometimes run up to it and gasp, the stories cannot possibly be true, right?

Their parents usher the doe-eyed children along, casting a sideways glance at the vehicle. Even sometimes a fearful one if they are old enough.

Because the men who drove it were serial killers.

Except they weren't.

And the children will move on. But not really. They will sneak back to the car and gaze at it in wonder. They will reach out and touch it, the story of the brothers and the angel and the prophet and the old drunk and the king and the red-headed nerd and the girl who was too young to die and the woman with fire in her eyes and the sugar addict.

The ones who became legends.

But there is also a man, one who visits the car quite often, who reaches for the pictures of himself in the glove compartment. Sometimes not even that. Sometimes he just sits on the hood, blue eyes gazing kindly out onto the scene. Meditating.

He knows the story quite well. Because he was in it.

He told me the story once. And now I will tell you.

The story of the boys who grew up too soon and left home. Who were broken and beaten and killed, and refused to stay that way. Because they had a purpose.

The story of the nerd and the prophet and the old drunk and the kind woman with fire in her eyes and the little girl who shouldn't have died and the red-headed nerd with the Dungeons and Dragons tattoo who had an adventure and the nice vampire and a trickster who just wanted the fighting to end.

They were legends. Stories. Until the man.

He was an angel.

And the angel took them all from Hell and loved them all more than his father. Loved everyone more than his father. All of the angels were supposed to do that. The Angel, I suppose, was the only one who did.

They were men. Soldiers. Hunters. Scum of the Earth. Now they are stories.

And they broke the rule book. 

Ripped it to shreds.

Burned it and stomped on it until there was nothing left.

Then, God approached them, disguised. They couldn't see him for what he truly was. Not ever.

Then, the peace-keeper and the rebel broke The Darkness from her cage by killing Death.

Then, The Darkness was defeated by the only power that could defeat her.

The Light.

The little girl who died too soon wasn't just a spirit any more.

She was a god.

And the rebel could control Death.

And the peace-keeper could control Time.

And the red-headed nerd who had an adventure created things from a whim.

And the Trickster wove stories and tales from thin air.

And the lowly foot-soldier of an angel became The Angel. The last of his kind. And he loved humanity just as he loved the brothers and the prophet and the old drunk and the red-headed nerd who had an adventure.

And together they made their own rule book. One that was full of loopholes and deviations and choices and freedoms.

And they rode into the sunset one last time.

And sometimes they were happy. And sometimes they were sad. And The Angel fell head over heels for the peace-keeper.

In the old, old car in the old, old lot.


End file.
